


Unforgiven

by isisrising (Noxtorious)



Series: William Scott [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Heartbreak, Multi, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxtorious/pseuds/isisrising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach, Sherlock returns to find that the world around him has changed. Barred from both the work and from John's life, Sherlock finds himself almost totally alone. In the wake of John's refusal to forgive him, Sherlock must learn to forgive himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I don't have friends-_

Sherlock reclined on his usual spot in the den at 221B. He'd stayed in today, preferring to observe people from a distance. Outside, the weather was dreary. Grey clouds hung like a cloak about London; Sherlock knew it would rain within the hour. Wind filtered in, billowing the curtains.  

221B was deathly quiet, with all the lights off. Mail, recently received, sat on the table in disarray. The flat as whole, however, was jarringly neat and empty. Everything had been packed away and sold after he'd left, put in it's proper place, cleaned. Everything John left behind after the fall was still here, packed away in his room. Only one thing was broken, and it-he- was currently resisting help. As the clouds grew darker, the light filtering into the sitting room dimmed. Sherlock drew his knees up and curled into himself. He closed his eyes, leaned back, and exhaled, taking in the sounds of the city. A child's laughter rang out, before being swallowed by the quiet murmur of people in conversation. Cars passed by on the street; a horn sounded momentarily. Sherlock let the sound of footsteps on the street wash over him, surmising the stories of the people walking below. For a split second, Sherlock imagined that he could hear John's footsteps on the pavement, hurrying to get in from the impending storm, jacket flapping, struggling against the wind as he made his way back to 221B-

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He wouldn't, would  _not_ allow himself to dabble in those feelings. He began to breathe methodically, soothing himself until the tightness in his chest subsided. Sherlock adjusted his vision, staring intently into the growing darkness. 

 _Loneliness, pure sentiment, nothing else, nothing new_ , Sherlock mused. He hadn't had anything close to a friend before John. Why would a moment of happiness suddenly disarm him so deeply? This was Sherlock's life, after all. John's presence was a temporary (wondrous, magnificent) relief. All good things must come to an end, and so Sherlock found himself alone again. 

Day blended into evening as the sky broke. Rain spattered on the windowsill, stray droplets falling against Sherlock's face. He leaned back, inhaling the smell of the rain.

_Naturally. I don't have friends, not even the one._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even with Sherlock out of his life, John can't get him out of his mind, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and I'm not making money from this.

Elsewhere, John stumbled through the doors of his flat, wet and tired from a long day's work. He walked through the door, straight into Mary's arms and held her closely around the waist.

"Mmmm, Mary," he murmured softly, breathing in her scent. Mary was warm, smelling of perfume, Earl Grey tea, and a hint of strawberries, her lunch for the day. John turned and kissed her gently, full, soft lips meeting his own. Smiling, Mary broke the kiss first, striding into the kitchen.

"Dinner'll be ready in a sec," she called. John hummed his assent, settling down in the sitting room chair. Switching on the telly, he'd just found a programme suitable for zoning out to when he heard Mary calling again, 

"Don't think for a second you won't be helping me clean, John." He laughed easily.

"Never crossed my mind, love." John sank into the couch, a sense of ease and fulfillment deep inside him for the first time since he-Sherlock-went away. John's career was going well, he had found the most fantastic woman on the continent and married her, and had true peace and order in his life. John's life wasn't perfect, far from it, what with the situation with Sherlock, but this was damn close to it. John's fingers wandered to his wedding ring, and a genuine smile made its way onto his face.

A soft touch brought John out of his reverie. 

"Dinner's ready, John." Mary smiled fondly, saying, "What's got you so happy?"

 _Nothing. Everything. Life. You,_ John wanted to say. Instead, he looked up at her and grinned, shrugging his shoulders. He stood up,putting an arm around Mary and walking into the kitchen.

"How's your day?" Mary began.

"Tiring," said John. "The usual sick kids, hypochondriac pensioners, you know. You?"

"Papers, lectures, meetings," Mary said wearily. John hummed in sympathy. A comfortable silence passed between them as they sat down to dinner and ate. After finishing, they cleaned the dishes, then settled on the sofa as John started the kettle.

"How are your friends?" Mary asked.

"They're alright. Some of the boys at St. Barts want to start a rugby club on Saturdays," John said. "I'm a bit partial to the idea, myself."

"Sounds good," said Mary. "It'll give you something to do when I'm out with the girls." John laughed.

"I do things when you're not around, I'll have you know," he said lightheartedly.

"Sure," joked Mary. There was a small pause. "How's your friend?" Mary asked again, a touch more timidly.

"Who?" John was confused.

"The-" The kettle boiled, interrupting Mary.

"Ah, kettle's boiled, just be a sec." John rose from the couch. He fixed two cups, wondering all the while why Mary was unusually inquisitive about his friends today.

"Here's your cuppa," John said as he settled back down. 

"Ta. As I was saying, how's Lestrade, your cop friend?" she said. John hummed thoughtfully. He'd certainly been on friendly terms with Lestrade. Lord knew that confirming Lestrade had no part in Sherlock's schemes had certainly been a relief to them both. They were on good terms, but despite Lestrade being at the wedding, they hadn't caught up since.

"Ah," he finally said. "Doing well, I suppose, but we really ought to catch up."

"Will your other friend be joining up with him? The detective? At Mary's words,  John's chest tightened. Sherlock, consulting detective, machine, liar, sodding, buggering-John cleared his throat, finishing the last of his tea in a few gulps. 

"No,"he said. After a pause, "He's not what I'd consider a friend."

"Why?" Mary asked casually.

"Because he's a liar, and he could have told me, and that's not what friends do," John said, his voice tinged with anger. 

"I wouldn't say that," Mary said cautiously. "He faked his death, sure, but he did it to save your life, yeah? And he probably nearly died for real out there, you know?" "Certainly a big act of friendship, if I ever saw one." 

John sighed. He could feel himself tensing up.

"I felt- _feel_ betrayed, Mary," he said, rubbing his temples. "He betrayed me, do you understand?" Mary looked on at him, frustration and sympathy on his face as John carried on.

"I will never,  _ever_ , see him again! We will never be friends again, do you hear me?" John's voice was slightly raised. He was flushed, rigid as he sat in the chair, looking not at Mary, but beyond her as he struggled to drown the anger welling up inside him.

"I understand, John," Mary said. She turned around, and finished drinking her tea without another word. John fiddled with his cup, before rising to put it in the sink.

"I'm off to bed, Mary," he said. 

"I'll join you," she said. "There's nothing on, anyway." She rose and headed for the bedroom, changing her clothes in the boudoir. John stripped down to a basic t-shirt and climbed into bed. Laying on the mattress, John stared at the ceiling, listening to Mary's ablutions in the next room. Even in his mind, Sherlock forced his way in, unbidden. John thought of the unusual face, contorted in all different ways: lust, surprise, triumph, pain. John's thoughts wandered to the day Sherlock fell. Sherlock's face in death, even when it was faked was something altogether different. Smooth, calm, still, blank: none of the things that distinguished him in life. John recalled looking into Sherlock's blank eyes, begging him to live, as though it were yesterday. To realize that he was alive, to imagine that Sherlock possibly relished in John's pain-it was too much to bear.

Staring out into the night through the blinds, John barely registered Mary sliding into the covers beside him.

"Goodnight, John," she said sleepily.

"Goodnight, love," he replied. In the darkness, John slid into sleep but did not find peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to know, now that this fic is getting underway:
> 
> This is non-Britpicked, and extremely canon-divergent.
> 
> With these things in mind, please enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is not nearly as well-adjusted as he believes, and finds himself in trouble; by extension, so does Mary. Neither of them realizes this yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea for this fic was conceived and drafted long before Amanda Abbington was cast as Mary Morstan, and long before Mary's character was revealed. As such, my interpretation of Mary is quite different from the BBC interpretation (you know, canon divergence and all) . Keeping that in mind, I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> P.S. I don't own the BBC's characters.

Mary remained both skeptical and undaunted by John's outburst the previous evening; after all, it wasn't the first time they'd been through this argument. Always one to check the facts for herself, she resolved the next day to have a meeting with Sherlock. If one had seen Mary that morning, it would've been hard to tell that she was a woman on a mission. John certainly couldn't tell as they'd enjoyed a quick cup of coffee before leaving for work.

"Mary," John began. Mary simply hummed in reply.

"I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday," he said, apologetically. "It was out of line and I shouldn't have gone off like that. It was not on, and it's only fair that you would be curious about that...time in my life."

"It's all right, John," Mary replied evenly. "Old wounds can still smart, I know that well." As Mary finished her coffee, John felt grateful that he'd married someone who understood him so well. He moved behind her, embracing her gently around the waist and kissing her quickly on the cheek. The simple gesture filled Mary with warmth, but also guilt at what she'd resolved to do. 

"Have a good day at work, love," she said, turning to give him a quick peck on the lips.

"You too," said John. He crossed the room and headed out the door. Mary followed shortly afterwards.

The entire day, Mary found herself unable to concentrate. She could hardly focus on her work, finding herself absorbed in watching the clock. When her day ended in the mid-afternoon, Mary had never been more thankful. She sat at her desk, gathering her papers and organizing them. Slipping a few in her bag to work on at home, she slung her jacket over her forearm, and walked through the doors, hailing a cab a few blocks away. As Mary stepped onto the kerb, she walked towards 221B with a sense of growing trepidation. After all, she'd never known John to be a liar. What if she found Sherlock to be truly horrible? _What if Sherlock wasn't even there?_ After all, this was totally impromptu. Mary faltered for a moment, then continued on, determined to see her efforts through. As she entered 221B and headed up the stairs, Mary took a deep breath and knocked, hoping nothing too bad would come of her decision. 

Inside, Sherlock had been laying on the couch, eyes closed, deep in thought when he suddenly heard a knock on the door. The footsteps weren't of anyone he knew, and it couldn't be a client; the bell hadn't been rung. Sherlock contemplated ignoring whoever was there in favor of playing the violin, but a second and then third set of knocks finally roused him. Swinging open the door, his eyes widened momentarily at seeing Mary Morstan-Watson, standing before him. Silently, he moved to the side, letting her in. As he walked past her, his mind raced. He'd never seen Mary in person; only in pictures that he'd been shown from her and John's wedding. He collapsed onto the couch, wondering what could have brought her to him. _Was John in trouble?_ Sherlock wondered.

Mary, who'd turned to face Sherlock, saw that he was already on the couch. A bit flustered, Mary first closed and locked the door, then hung up her jacket. Looking across the room, she could see Sherlock staring intently at the chair across from him. Mary reasoned, based on the little that she knew, that the chair was John's. She decided that it would be best if she instead sat across him, on the sofa. That way, at least, she could avoid his ire, if not his scrutiny. Sherlock merely swiveled around on the couch he was sharing with Mary and focused his gaze on her. Mary's cheeks burned from the stare, and she turned away slightly. This, of course, did not stop Sherlock in the least. For quite a while he'd heard about Mary; now was his chance to catalogue her in person, observe her from the head down. Mary's hair was wild. Long, dark coils and curls, from the corkscrew to the undefined adorned her head. They were pinned up and away from her face, voluminous and messy but pleasant to look at all the same. Sherlock was not unaware of his own curls, curls John used to run his fingers through some nights, pulled with fervent lust on others-

Sherlock continued his observations. Mary's skin was naturally dusky, tanned even darker from the summer weather. Her eyes were brown; she had a smallish nose, full lips, decent bone structure. Her jaw was tense, set in a guarded expression. 

 _John obviously doesn't know she's here_ , Sherlock thought.

Mary's neck muscles were tense as well.

_She doesn't trust me, just as well._

Sherlock noted the trepidation in her eyes, but also noticed the rigidity in her shoulders and firmly planted feet. 

_Ah, but she won't leave. Interesting._

Sherlock continued his analysis. Sensible heels, good clothes, accentuating her body just enough to leave a man interested...inwardly, Sherlock smirked. She was petite, shorter than John by two inches. Certainly, some would've been surprised at John's choosing Mary, but Sherlock could see an alertness, a shrewd, crafty rebelliousness. Sherlock's mouth turned up in a small grin. 

For her part, Mary bore it diligently and silently. Silence pervaded the flat, seeming to stretch into eternity; it was maddening. Mary entertained the idea of running from the flat, never to return. Inwardly, she disparaged the thought. She made the effort to get here; she may as well see that effort through. 

"I keep the door unlocked in case of emergencies, or if an urgent meeting arises," came Sherlock's baritone. Mary started, wheeled around and was directly confronted with Sherlock's pale, appraising eyes. Getting a better look at him, Mary saw the sharp cheekbones, the dark, lustrous curls, the cupid's bow mouth. She dared not look him up and down yet. 

"I apologize," Mary finally managed. Sherlock noted her voice: dusky and feminine, like the rest of her.

"No need," he said. "As it is, I've no longer any use for the practice. So, what brings you here, Mrs. Watson?" Sherlock said coolly. He took care to hide any feelings of concern or interest from his face and voice. 

"Can't you tell? The way you were staring at me?" she said.

"Possibly, if I were a mind reader," Sherlock drawled.

"I came to see you-to finally meet you," Mary said, still a bit shaken but considerably more grounded. 

"Here I am," said Sherlock. The look in his eyes changed from cynicism to distant melancholy.  _I said danger, and here you are._

"Yes," Mary's voice cut in, "yes you are. So, why'd you do it? Fake your death, I mean." She was a bit hesitant, unsure of how to proceed.

"Haven't you seen the telly? Read the papers?" Sherlock asked icily. 

"Rubbish. I wouldn't entertain the sensationalised trash from Fleet Street on an average day," Mary said, with a calmness that surprised even her. She continued, "I'd never entertain it when it came to the man who dominated my husband's life for years." Mary looked over at Sherlock and sensing no hostility, relaxed a bit more in the couch. Sherlock gazed at Mary with renewed interest. 

"Well, Mrs. Morstan-Watson-"

"Please, just Mary." she said. "How'd you know I kept my name hyphenated?"

"Anyone stubborn and independent enough to walk into my flat behind her husband's back and demand explanations of me is surely too stubborn not to keep her maiden name," Sherlock said, leaning back in the chair.

"You're quite good, Mr Holmes," Mary said, laughing softly, and a jolt went up Sherlock's spine, a pleasant yet surprising sensation. Sherlock was fascinated, wanting to know why this occurred, wanting her to say his name again, to experiment, and then once more, just for the hell of it. The part of Sherlock with some remaining sense of decorum suddenly intervened, forcing him to snap out of it. Sherlock was thunderstruck at this betrayal by his body, looking as though he'd been slapped. Dazedly, he rose and stepped into the kitchen. 

"How rude of me to not to offer you tea; here, I'll set the kettle, should only be a moment," Sherlock said distractedly, giving Mary no time to respond. As he fetched the cups, his mind raced, trying to process this new set of variables. In the very next room was Mary, who was  _married, married to **John**  _ _for God's sake!_  Also, she was unlike the other people he'd ever considered seriously. Mary lacked Irene's hypersexuality, nor did she have Irene's confidence and observational skill. Unlike Molly-yes, there'd been a brief moment when he'd considered fulfilling her desires-Mary didn't have her timidity or passivity. 

There was also John, who for a brief, beautiful moment in Sherlock's life made it seem as though anything was possible-no. Nobody was like John Watson. 

Mary was worth considering though. She had a sweetness and sensuality all her own, qualities no longer lost on Sherlock. She also had an underlying strength, he could see that just from this one act of defiance. Sherlock pondered it all as the kettle heated. Busying his hands with the cups and teabags, Sherlock pondered this carefully. Mary had a rebellious nature, was independent and thorough,but caring-Sherlock had heard how she helped John while Sherlock was away-and steady...

Sherlock started a bit to see Mary suddenly beside him in the kitchen, looking up at him.

"The kettle's been boiling," she said, looking the slightest bit concerned. Sherlock immediately snapped out of his reverie, making a mental note to revisit that train of thought at the earliest convenience.

"Should I?..." Mary said, reaching for a cup. Sherlock gently tapped her hand. 

"No," he said. "I assure you that I can prepare tea decently." Sherlock shooed Mary out, then prepared the tea and milk, adding some sugar and a pinch of cinnamon (something he'd learned from John.) Bringing the tray back into the sitting room, he sat it down, then resumed his place on the couch beside Mary. 

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," said Mary, taking a cup. Sherlock watched the mix of pleasure and surprise on her face, and knowing he was the cause sent a familiar sensation throughout his body, one Sherlock dared not name.

"Sherlock, please," he said abruptly. Inwardly, he kicked himself for dragging out that 'please' a bit too long.

"As I said, Sherlock,"- and the feeling in Sherlock returned. This was wrong. 

"-Why did you take the fall?" Sherlock focused his gaze on her.

"There were hit men after John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. After Moriarty shot himself, it was the only way to protect them." Sherlock was stone-faced. Mary nodded silently.

"And these two years you were away, you were..." Mary gently coaxed.

"Traveling the globe covertly, dismantling Moriarty's network. It was the only way to ensure everyone's safety." Sherlock still looked grim, but Mary could see weariness, sadness in his expression. She recognized it from the rare occasions John would speak about Afghanistan. 

"Did it really have to be secret?" Mary asked softly.

"Yes!" Sherlock cried out. "One word, one  _hint_ that anyone knew and everyone would have been in danger. Why doesn't anyone understand this?!" 

"The forensics girl knew, your brother knew, and apparently, twenty or so derelicts knew," Mary countered. She needed more information, needed to know the whole story. 

"Molly and Mycroft were not being targeted, making them useful to aide me in my endeavors," Sherlock ground out. Standing suddenly, aware of and terrified by his loss of self-control, he leaned into Mary's face. She barely moved, rooted to the spot. 

"Do you know what I did, while I was away? I killed," Sherlock said maniacally. "I tortured, I hurt people. I was tortured, beaten, nearly killed several times," he said angrily. "I murdered the guilty and defiled the innocent, and before I was a year undercover I knew I was beyond redemption." "I tried to survive," Sherlock said, his face unreadable. "I did it for..." he faltered.

"I did it for  _nothing._ I came back and realised I lost everything." 

"You didn't do it for nothing; you did it for John, and all your friends," Mary said quietly. Sherlock, who'd turned away from her during his outburst, rounded on Mary, displaced rage in his eyes. In a moment, though, it was gone, and Sherlock collapsed in the couch. 

"Forgive me, Mary, I've lost myself," Sherlock said. He looked pale, shaken as he reached for his tea and sipped. Mary hummed her forgiveness. 

"Do you have your friends back?" she asked, something in her voice Sherlock couldn't quite place.

"Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade have forgiven me, if that's what you're asking," Sherlock said with a forced coolness. Mary hummed thoughtfully, sipping her tea. A pregnant pause hung in the air. Mary dared not ask what she desperately wanted to know, and Sherlock, who knew what she was thinking, did not volunteer. 

"An English professor," Sherlock said finally. " And a doctor," he continued. "Your conversations must be limited."

"They're not," Mary countered. "How did you know I was an English professor?" Sherlock launched right in. 

"Inquisitive nature," he began. "Dressed neatly but practically, and casually." "Your hands are dry, but mostly the pads and palms. There's fresh ink stains on your hands, but not print ink, so not a journalist. Pen ink, yes, but not necessarily a writer." "You demand answers of me, you work with pen ink and paper, primarily..." Sherlock suddenly grabbed Mary's hands. A jolt went through him.  _A matter of pure sentiment, nothing more_ , Sherlock thought, but that didn't quell the feeling. Sherlock brushed it aside, continuing his deductions.

"As I thought. Rough fingertips, a paper cut here, on the middle finger. Ink under the nail of the index finger, probably from skimming lines in books; an avid reader." "A non media job requiring love of reading, an inquisitive and critical nature and working with print material? Obviously a professor of English," Sherlock said with subdued pride. Mary grinned coyly.

"Un-tenured obviously, or you'd never be going through that much paperwork," he said.

"I am tenured, surprise," said Mary. "I've been covering for a friend on vacation, so my workload is temporarily doubled." 

"Ah," Sherlock said. "I'm always missing something." He was surprised at the wistfulness of his tone. Sherlock was not a man in possession of himself today (anymore), and he had no idea why.

"It would seem so, Mr. Holmes-er, Sherlock," said Mary. Something in her tone made his chest tighten.

"Any new cases?" Mary suddenly inquired.

"No, I'm prohibited from working with the Met until further notice. Lestrade has a chance at a promotion, so he's taking no risks," he said. Mycroft could've helped, but he wouldn't, of course not, the bastard.

"Don't you have any private cases?" Mary asked.

"Barely. Despite the supporters, and despite what interviews I have given, my reputation is still largely ruined," he said, evenly.

"So what are you doing in the meantime?" Mary asked, trying to suppress the edge of consternation creeping in her voice. 

"Going insane," Sherlock deadpanned, smirking.

"Aren't we all," said Mary. She looked down at her watch. "Well, Sherlock, I'll be off. It's been a pleasure." She arose, fetching her purse. There was an awkward pause, as she didn't know whether to hug him or leave outright. Mary settled for a formal medium, extending her hand to his. He accepted graciously. Mary grabbed her jacket and headed through the door.

As soon as Sherlock heard the front door close, he sank into his chair, eager to process this new data. He could hardly remember the last time he'd had such erratic behaviour, and an outburst, over _sentiments_? Sherlock paused, thinking. He hadn't been able to open up to anyone since his return, sitting in the flat, on edge for months now. John was...unavailable. Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would all be riddled with guilt, which would lead to an unnecessary display of emotion. God knew Sherlock had enough emotional wreckage to sort through as it was. Mycroft...well, he knew what occurred while Sherlock was abroad, and neither of them was ready or willing to go down that road yet. 

The outburst at Mary, Sherlock decided, was simply a matter of her being willing to listen; the only available source for Sherlock to speak, at any length, about his turmoil. It was yet another appalling display of sentiment, and it would not happen again, Sherlock resolved. 

But could that explain the more base feelings that had been present? Perhaps in part, but not in total. Mary herself was certainly part of the fascination; Sherlock could see what would have attracted John: femininity, intelligence, a certain rebelliousness. Sherlock himself, however, was also a large part of this mystery: after all, Sherlock had rarely been this weak when it came to suppressing his primal instincts before. He'd been changed irrevocably by his time away, that was for certain. Sherlock could feel the weight of his actions overseas hanging over everything he did; settling in his bones, tainting his friendships, haunting his sleep. Perhaps the primal nature that he relied on to survive while away was still present, not totally under control yet. _No matter_ , thought Sherlock,  _when I see Mary next time, I'll have everything sorted out._

He very pointedly did not think about why the thought filled him with eagerness; or why he even thought she'd return at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things to note about this fic: 
> 
> This is taking place in early summer, after John and Mary's wedding. Sherlock was not invited. 
> 
> The layout of 221B has been changed a bit, with the addition here of a couch facing the window, and Sherlock and John's chairs facing the sofa.


End file.
